“Are we going to a funeral?” they ask.
“I fucking knew it.” I release the seatbelt, and it clangs against the door. “I’m going to change.”
Mo laughs. “I’m just fucking with you. Chill out. We haven’t left the house yet, and you’re already in panic mode?”
“I don’t date,” I remind them, listening for the click of the seatbelt.
I relax into the seat as Mo turns off the gravel path and onto the interstate. “It’s not that serious. A couple of drinks at the bar, maybe some dancing if you’re up for it. No pressure. If you want to leave at any point, say the word.”
“Ok. I want to leave now,” I deadpan.
Mo snorts. “How do you expect to find a partner if you never put yourself out there?”
“Who says I want a partner?”
“You don’t have to say it. I know you, Callie. You want it all—the house, the family, the kids. The fucking horses.” They mutter the last part under their breath.
“Horses?”
“Look, all I’m saying is you should give the cowboy a chance.”
She doesn’t say which cowboy, but I can make an educated guess. Even if I had feelings for the stupidly handsome, tattooed cowboy with a savior complex, nothing would ever come of it. I’m damaged goods. The second he sees my scars, he’ll run. I couldn’t bear the humiliation—not with Jaxon.
“Fine. I’ll humor you for one night, but you’ll have to find another wingman for the next one."
“That's all I’m asking.”
We arrive early and find a seat at the bar. They make small talk with the bartender, and before I know it, several drinks are placed in front of us.
Mo slides a shot glass to me. “Here. For your nerves.”
“I think this is what a therapist would call enabling.”
“Good thing we’re not in therapy. Cheers.” They clink their glass against mine and we down the shots. In the absence of a chaser, I drown the burn with my dill pickle martini.
A large hand touches my shoulder, and I stiffen.
“You must be Callie? I’m Clint.” He’s a good-looking guy with an angular jaw and black wavy hair tucked beneath a worn brown cowboy hat. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and his tan skin is covered in tattoos along his hands and forearms. My mind instantly wanders to another tattooed cowboy—and then another. One faceless. One decidedly not.
I guess I have a type.
I shrug off the advance and plaster on a fake smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Nia joins us and pulls Mo in for a quick hug. I wonder if she got her panties back now that Atticus is gone.
“Sorry about my cat,” I tell her. “He’s harmless, I swear.”
Nia laughs, her brown eyes crinkling in amusement. “No worries. Should we grab a table?”
Mo leads the way to a high top with four stools. Clint’s hand touches my back, right over a large pink scar concealed beneath my clothing, and I flinch.
I manage to get onto the high stool without embarrassing myself, which is no easy feat. I have short legs, and my thighs spill out over the sides. It’s not the most comfortable seat, but I don’t want to complain and put a damper on the evening.
Mo and Nia sit across from Clint and me. Their chemistry is immediately evident. To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m here. They clearly didn’t need any help. Mo tucks a lock of Nia’s dark brown hair behind her ear, and I suddenly feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.
Reluctantly, I turn my attention to Clint. “So, how did you get roped into this?”
Clint flashes me his impossibly white teeth. “Nia thinks I need to start taking my dating life more seriously.”
